


The Unknowns

by Cait_Corbett



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Mild Blood, Other, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26059504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cait_Corbett/pseuds/Cait_Corbett
Summary: Here, there are no heroes - only lost souls combined, united toward the challenges of Azeroth.
Kudos: 1





	The Unknowns

**Author's Note:**

> The cooperation between High Elves and Lordaeron Humans, tenuous at best, folly at worst.

At the third day, Dar’nath actively sought out Serilde - the rain-slickened streets of Lordaeron were unforgiving yet, despite the rainfall having ceased more than half a day ago. Mules and oxen trudged through the mire created by the wide spread of wagon wheels and trudging feet and Dar’nath, in his wild disdain of anything filthy in this disgusting city, had marched through it all like a haughty stallion, huffing and snorting. It was Saturday - the Lights day, and end of the week - the Cathedral was quiet with milling hosts glittering about, up until Dar’nath clopped through the halls, whipping his cloak behind him like an angry cat and where it snapped it sprayed mud. How he’d known where she was is the truest mystery, but one she would solve later - set about lighting candles at the altar stage opposite the great double oak entry, Serilde had full view of Dar’nath making a spectacle of himself.

He paused and breathed deep, simmering on the edge of disgust - but he ignored the mud caked onto his fine golden gilding, though Serilde watched where it dropped off in great globs from once-sparkling sabatons with a frown - she’d have to clean that, later.

“What’re you doing?” She asked, since he seemed, for the moment, rather content staring at her.

“I’ve come for aid,” he began, then coughed briefly - his voice came harsh and crude then, when he spoke again, perhaps catching the sharp snipe, it was gentler, “I need help deciphering a tome.”

Serilde scowled, “why?”

Dar’nath gave her a long-suffering look, “because it’s in Common.”

“But you speak Common fine.”

“It’s old Common,” he stressed, exasperated. He took a step upon the marble stairs leading up, no more higher than Serilde’s shin. His armor creaked weakly.

Serilde considered him briefly then returned her focus partly to the candles, lighting them slowly, “I will help. Where’s this tome?”

A clap of steel caught her attentions for the barest blink - Dar’nath drooped a hand onto his bent knee with a silent heaving sigh. From the corner of her peripheral, she could see him staring away into the long lost corners of the Cathedral, as though some answers for him may be lingering deep within their dusty depths.

“In the Paladin camp,” he grumbled.

Serilde hummed, “I don’t believe Priests are allowed there.”

She glanced again and Dar’nath balked - she grinned a little and replaced the long candle she used to light the others, “Priests of Lordaeron are not permitted to fraternize with foreign Paladins, least of all Elves. They can’t be trusted.”

Dar’nath’s normally sunny complexion reddened a little around the nose, likely from a tepid annoyance barely kept at bay beneath his pretty armor. Serilde sighed dramatically and glanced around - no one paid them much heed any longer and the grand foyer was largely empty - she clipped down a step, watching him down the curve of her nose.

“Show me,” she said.

Dar’nath briskly straightened and contained a smile threatening to break his facade and led straight back from whence he came, tramping through the rapidly drying and lightening mud and Serilde thought, for once as it crushed beneath her heel - to let someone else deal with it. Outside the air was cool and brisk, rapidly warming with a thin haze forming over the grassy knolls of the Cathedral garden, and the sky was blazing blue - it would be a beautiful day for certain, minus the mud.

He led them back through the winding open streets to where the Silvermoon High Elves made camp - far too luxurious and sweetly spiced to pass for any normal camp and to his Charger stabled there, it’s glistening white fur brushed clean and its blanket freshly washed - it spied Serilde as she approached with its large dark eyes and sweeping lashes, steady and calm. It’s saddlebags were near bursting at its sides, knocking it as the horse kicked, becoming impatient - the Thalassian Charger loved to run, and the sight of its master excited it.

Dar’nath tore off his cloak where it fastened to golden pauldrons and heaved it over the stable wall - his titles and status meant that this stable was largely singular for Dar’nath and whatever poor stable-elf he employed - followed by those soiled sabatons and his gauntlets - one by one pieces of the armor fell away until he was standing dressed simply, perhaps no more than a common High Elf, spare the aristocratic slope of his features - and mounted the steed. He was deathly silent and seriously grim, and Serilde felt compelled not to question him.

When he held a hand to her, Serilde stepped back - she threw away her Priests tabard and over robe, left to only the white thick chemise beneath - it had a deep hood for warmth in Lordaerons typical brisk weather but now it served to shield her face as she took his hand and saddled the horse behind him, grasping the leather fast as he set the Charger into a trot for Lordaerons gate into Tirisfal.

There was no question as they swept beyond the gate into the welcoming verdant groves of rolling hills and small streams, a steady path venturing out to small farms that supplied Lordaeron and beyond - the birds sang and swept in the sky, insects chirper with the growing heat of the morning and small plumes of fresh pollen were kicked up by the Chargers growing canter, leading them away from the road and into where the trees were thickest.

“Where are we going?” Serilde finally asked - the horse jolted a little, where the ground dipped unexpectedly and she had to wrench a hand tight in Dar’naths shirt to keep from slipping off.

“I found a pond this way,” the horse started scaling a swell of land, and the trees became thinner, “exploring. Yesterday.”

“Yesterday the Elf Paladins were meant to travel to Lights Hope with Sir Uther,” Serilde chided, which she now knew Dar’nath had skipped - as usual.

He turned a little as his Charger slowed back into a swaying stride and offered a dashing grin, “the privilege of my status declares that I am not questioned, should I not attend.”

“You’d think Sir Uther would search for a rogue Elf roaming around Tirisfal,” Serilde wondered out loud.

“Perhaps he was,” Dar’nath shrugged.

Serilde snorted, “someday your arrogance will catch up with you.”

“Not if I can outrun it,” Dar’nath brought his Charger to a halt and slipped down with practiced ease and grace, offering a hand to Serilde which she took to steady her own way down - far less dignified - and let the touch linger.

“You’ve brought me here before,” she said, looking around. Perhaps a few years ago - but he certainly had. If possible, it seemed Dar’naths long ears lowered a fraction as he looked around as well, his glittering luminous blue eyes sweeping the clearing like a fire.

“I’m fairly sure I haven’t.”

“I’m fairly sure you had,” Serilde concluded, breaking away from him to step through the soft grass - Dar’nath had ridden here barefoot and after seconds thought Serilde abandoned her cloth shoes as well to feel the soft warm grass, humming as she did.

“I’d remember if I had,” Dar’nath said thoughtfully, unstrapping both saddlebags and following her into the sunny grass, “I’ve mapped most of Tirisfal by now, I think I’d know.”

Serilde scoffed and turned with a smile, throwing back the hood of her chemise and shaking her dark hair free from its plaits, “for an Elf, you have a terrible memory.”

They’d done this many times - held up the image of a pious Priest and noble Paladin as to not spur questions, more often than not devising reasons to slip away together for a day where such high expectations were dashed in lieu for relaxation and friendship. The Lights day was the easiest, as it was often regarded as the day were work must not be done, and neither were expected anywhere of value - a lesson learned last year, only a week into the yearly arrival of the High Elves, when Dar’nath had attempted to steal her away on a particularly beautiful midweek morning, right in the middle of the blessings for the poor and sick. The Bishop then had nearly caught them, and they’d taken to upholding supreme secrecy since.

Here, Dar’nath didn’t have to live up to the regard of his uncle and his name and lineage, and Serilde didn’t have to croon over Holy scripture and pray for Lights mercy. She could lay in the grass, indecent and free while Dar’nath tossed down the saddlebags and sat not far away, spreading out his long legs and flopping back with a long sigh.

“I’m sure I’d remember this,” he said wistfully, looking up into the clear sky, pale blond hair lost in a tangle in the dewy grass, “I brought cheese and bread from Silvermoon, and those tarts you liked. And summer ale brewed from the first spring berries in Starbreeze. And tobacco from my uncles private stores.”

Serilde turned her head to look, “is it wise to steal from him?”

Dar’nath snorted, wrinkling his fine nose, “His collection is quite extensive,” he explained, extending a slender hand toward the sky and splaying his fingers wide, “I doubt he’ll miss a pouch or two.”

Serilde rolled onto her stomach, the action bringing her a breathe closer to Dar’nath, peering at him through her hair that had swept over, pushed up onto her elbows, “I’d hope so for your sake.”

He glanced at her, blue eyes twinkling - she’d thought before of gazing into them, trying to find the pupils there shrouded within the glow, but looked away before she’d discovered anything, pulling at the grass instead. Dar’nath sighed again - a symptom of restlessness and looked up.

“Do you think that cloud looks like a horse?” He asked, squinting.

Serilde looked - the sky was blissfully clear, not a cloud in sight, and Dar’nath used her distraction to attack. He snatched her up and hauled her over a shoulder before Serilde could complain, the sound instead dying into a withering squeak in her throat as he stood fluidly, walking rapidly. The grass was a blur beneath her of green, and then brown and blue as she was thrown unceremoniously into the small lake, crashing into and rising from the water with a sputter - she gathered up her chemise around her thighs quickly and snatched his hand before he could recoil, too caught up in a whoop of laughter, and hauled him into the water with her. It was cold and stung and the mud at the bottom was soft and her feet sunk into the sediment, and there they splashed and fought and laughed the morning away.

——

Minutes turned to hours. The day carried on into a pleasant afternoon heat. They’d long since dried at the waters edge and sat shoulder to shoulder, cheese and bread and tarts demolished, passing the wine too and fro while Serilde lost herself in one of the books Dar’nath had also brought - pulled triumphantly from the second saddlebag after lunch - and flipped through the lovely drawings within.

“This is really what high society in Silvermoon likes?” Serilde turned a page. Largely it was a depiction of Elven fashion, dotted with more risqué art - she turned the book and looked up and down at a whole length of wonderful lines building the image of a female Elf, lounging supine on an ottoman, thighs spread and draped silk scandalously high.

Dar’nath wiped his mouth and set aside the wine, “for some. I picked that up from Murder Row last fall.”

Serilde laid the book on her thighs, “I imagined something more... refined.”

“Not in Murder Row - that’s a, what do you call them here? Lady of the night?” Dar’nath eyed the picture, filling his pilfered pipe with even more pilfered tobacco.

Serilde hummed and spied him, emboldened by the wine, “is this what you like?”

Dar’nath’s clever eyes sprang to her, sweeping across her face strangely before reclining to light the pipe, “I have different tastes,” he finally answered, pulling a long drag and expelling a smoky plume from his nose.

“Ah,” Serilde said, nodding, “so, would that be gentlemen of the night?”

Dar’nath coughed, covering his mouth with smoke escaping between his fingers, “no,” he choked, swallowing, “that would not be the tastes I speak of.”

Serilde thought, and glanced at the Charger grazing under the shade of swaying trees, “don’t tell me it’s the hor—“

“Not horses,” he caught her, passing the pipe, “you have a filthy mind for a Priest. You’ll have to pray extra hard for Lights forgiveness tomorrow.”

“As is often the case,” Serilde puffed daintily - smoking wasn’t something she very often took part of, and certainly not like this - Elven tobacco was spiced, like much of their fare was, and burned pleasantly down her throat. She coughed the smoke up, then heartily puffed a second drag, “what would the Light be without someone seeking asylum for some awful sin.”

“And what sins have you committed?” He prodded, taking back the pipe. He let the bit rest against his lips, gazing out over the water.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Serilde griped, returning to the book. She felt Dar’nath’s gaze fall on her cheek like a brand and huffed, snapping it shut, “do you really want to know?”

Dar’nath pushed against her shoulder with his own.

“Fine,” she motioned for the wine, which he passed without hesitation. She sipped at it, watching where her toes wiggled in the grass, “I haven’t been able too... that is, I’ve been seeking the Light for quite some time, and I feel as though... it’s like this,” to emphasize her point, she plucked up a blade of grass and let it waft between her fingers, “like this. It just slips away. I don’t - I can’t feel it much anymore.”

Dar’nath suddenly seemed very serious. He stood with a waver and stepped three paces back from her, holding the pipe up by his temple, using it to scratch there.

“Cast renew on me,” he said.

Serilde stared, wide-eyed, then pulled long from the wine before standing with a very unladylike grunt, dusting off her hands.

“You need to be wounded for it to work,” she told him.

Dar’nath swirled the pipe bit around his pointed ear in thought, “I do have a terrible kink in my knee as of late.”

Serilde pushed back her hair, dry from the lake, “I could punch you, that would wound you.”

“As if you’d have the strength in those puny Human arms of yours,” Dar’nath puffed from the pipe, then his blue eyes went straight to the smoldering embers in the tobacco.

Serilde followed his gaze, and suddenly this wasn’t much of a game anymore - she stepped forward to stop him, “Darn, don’t. That’s stupid.”

“I’ve done stupider,” he slurred and clapped his free hand around the burning tobacco in the bowl, wincing as he did. When he withdrew the hand, a prominent burn reddened the fair skin of his palm, “there. Now heal it.”

Serilde raised a hand to summon the Light from within, and just as she’d said - as she’d struggled with, it evaded her. By now it felt as though the Light has entirely abandoned her all together, leaving instead a loathsome feeling of darkness swirling inside of her, like rum in a glass. She stepped closer, until a hand cupped Dar’nath’s now wounded one and the other tried desperately to heal the burn.

Dar’nath raised his eyes to her, burning with intensity, “come on. I know you can do it.”

Serilde shook her head, “I don’t—“ from her fingers then, something licked out - a flash of darkness, a burning tether of the Void making itself known, drawn out by the prickling fear suddenly stirring within her. It touched the wound and Dar’nath recoiled sharply with a hiss.

She stood back, stunned while Dar’nath easily and effectively flashed a bit of Light over the wound, and the skin knitted itself back together without much fanfare - something she should’ve been able to accomplish, that she knew she’d been able.. she looked down at her hand, where a misting swirl of black slowly fell away like snow from her fingertips.

“What was that?” Dar’nath asked breathlessly.

“That, it was—“ Serilde shook her head, “it’s what.. that’s what has taken over the Light. I don’t know what it is.”

She looked up, suddenly melancholy. Dar’nath, the way he looked at her - the wine and emotion bubbled up, and she choked back a sudden sob. It struck her so sharply that she nearly couldn’t speak, managing only a weak, “please, don’t hate me,” before her hand fell away, limply to her side.

Dar’nath clicked his tongue and grasped her suddenly, firmly, his strong arms encircling her shoulders and drawing her right to him. They’d shared the casual touch, as friends may, but this was far more than that - Serilde hesitantly hugged his middle, uncertain and slow and Dar’nath rocked them from foot to foot. The height difference was far more evident now than ever, with Serilde’s cheek pressed flush to Dar’nath’s chest, over where his heart beat steadily beneath.

“I could never hate you,” he breathed, resting his sharp chin ontop her head, and together they stayed like that for quite some time.

——

The sun had long since dipped over the tree line as they casually strolled back to Lordaeron. At this time, most folks had retreated back inside for supper, the guards were laxed and easy at their posts and pleasant smells emanated from the city. It was easy to pass back into the gates and march to the High Elf camp, back to Dar’nath’s personal meager stable. No stable-elf had been by, as their discarded clothing remained where it’d been dropped, which was a relief. Dar’nath must’ve dismissed him for the day, Serilde surmised.

Reluctantly she sat up straight behind Dar’nath from where she’d leaned bodily into his back and thrown a half-hearted arm around his waist to keep from falling off - or rather, the lie she’d told herself, quite familiar with the comfort that a simple touch could bring her. That hand now pressed lightly at his back, waiting for him to dismount, disinclined to be the first to break contact.

Dar’nath seemed to take his time and be thorough making sure his Charger was secured comfortably into its stable before he slipped from the saddle, this time grasping Serilde at the waist with both hands to help her down - the motion brought her close to him again, crowding the space between her and the horse.

“Will you come to the Midsummer Tourney tomorrow?” She asked as she stepped away, plaiting her hair to make herself a shade of presentable.

Dar’nath brushed by her to his discarded armor, knocking the mud from his sabatons - he hummed and tossed them back into the pile, instead replacing his far less soiled leg plates and bracers, “another tourney?”

“It’s the Princes’ birthday,” Serilde said, stepping beside Dar’nath to fish out her robes, “or, I think it is. King Menethil often likes to hold celebration in his honor.”

“Ah yes,” Dar’nath spat, “Prince Arthas could roll out of his royal bed and the King would see your city rejoice.”

Serilde stifled a laugh and shoved him, “not that often then.”

Dar’nath chuckled low, the sound was pleasing, “I suppose the King would consider High Elves his honored guests for the tournament. Perhaps he’d even let me tilt against the Prince himself.”

Serilde looked at him under her lashes, feigning focus on smoothing her robes as she slipped them on, “the Prince would kill you with a blunt twig, let alone a lance. You’d be destroyed.”

“You have such doubt for Elven prowess,” he sighed, latching his pauldrons in place - the image of a Paladin was building before her and she was caught by how stately Dar’nath looked in the gleaming brushed gold, tuned with red and white piping weaving into the steel, even without his sabatons - she threw her tabard on.

“So you’ll be there,” she concluded.

“Yes,” Dar’nath turned to her, “I don’t suppose the Bishop Darle would miss one of his Priests during the tourney?”

“He is easily distracted by conflict.”

“How surprising,” Dar’nath smiled.

Serilde was reluctant to leave, as though stepping outside this stable was the true finality to this wonderful day they’ve had - so much like the escapes they’ve made before and yet, strangely different. Dar’nath seemed to have been stricken by the same conflict, alternating between trying to knock free clumps of mud from his slumped and abandoned cloak and straightening the blanket across his Charger, his incandescent eyes like twin beacons in the growing darkness as they flickered toward her, like flashes of lightening.

“I’ll see you there,” she said, supposing it was finally time to leave, “thank you, for the fine day. I shall cherish it always.”

“Cherish for not long. I expect another romp isn’t too long on the horizon,” he regarded her wholly now, “I thought I spied a rather intriguing waterfall along the pass from Silvermoon to here. Would be a shame if we didn’t explore it further.”

Serilde smiled, “there’s no waterfalls around here.”

Dar’nath’s eyes twinkled, “only one way to find out.”

Serilde stepped back an inch, an aborted attempt to leave when something wild overtook her. She reached out and touched the bracer of his right hand, tracing the form in the metal that was difficult to now see in the dark. Dar’nath filled the space she’d recoiled from, turning up his palm and sliding his open hand against hers - the hand he had wounded. Serilde tried briefly to map his palm and find any traces of the burn but Dar’nath was an easily adept healer, not a trace to be found. His fingers tangled fleetingly with hers.

“Goodnight,” she said, pulling away and slipping from the stable - the sudden burning intent in Dar’nath’s eyes was too intense to be beheld within, heat rising rapidly to her cheeks that was hardly the result of the sun. She turned a corner sharply to hide from the intensity that she could feel following her retreat and there in the shadows of her walk, let her hand trace up about her cheek, closing her eyes.

——

The High Elf Paladins were a missing sight from the otherwise noble and wondrous Tourney. The sting their vacancy left was felt most keenly by Serilde, who departed from the other Priests from time to time, hoping to catch a glance of gilded gold in the crowd. The King made no acknowledgment of their lacking presence and it seemed much of Lordaeron paid them little heed as the celebration carried on through the day. When the sun dipped in the sky, Serilde felt the twist of her heart - Dar’nath said he’d be here, and while he was wildly frivolous toward his own duties, that hardly ever extended into their friendship. When Dar’nath promised her, he’d always meant it with ardent earnesty.

Serilde strode sullen through the sprung-up market selling wares and food to the celebrators who piled through their booths, now that the actual joust had long since ended. Music sprung from every corner but it did very little to raise Serilde’s drooped spirits and dancing revealers were more of a nuisance than a treasure in this heady summer night. Her eye caught a booth toward the end, mostly out of curiosity and she wandered near.

Jewelry. Nothing incredibly decorative or special perhaps by Elven means, but Serilde recognized two pendants immediately - two she’d wanted in childhood and gazed longingly at in private ever since. They were surprisingly common in Lordaeron, but as Serilde’s finger grazed the metal, she felt herself smile just a little. They were two slotted pieces that when combined fit together like a glove - separately they were twisting forms of pewter on silver chains, not unique or special spare the emerald gems adorning each side of the twin pendants.

The vendor caught her looking and leaned over his merchandise, “see something you like?”

Serilde glanced up and dropped her hand, “I’m certain it far exceeds the reach of my purse, good sir.”

The keep sniffed and peered at her, then rumbled thickly, “you’re a Priest, with Lordaerons Cathedral?”

She nodded. He sniffed again.

“Give me what you’ve got, and they’re yours.”

Serilde’s gloom suddenly lightened, “are you sure?”

The keep nodded, opening his palm as she emptied the contents of her purse to him, “brought my wife and child here some time ago. The good Priests healed them from a bit of plague. Been ever grateful since - seems like a fair trade. Take them. They’re yours.”

Serilde took the necklaces with shivering hands, smiling brightly. Her mood lightened considerably, “thank you. May the Light bless you.”

“And you,” he said, jingling away with her coin.

Serilde shuffled away into a less-populated part of the Tourney grounds, watching the glint of the metal in a nearby torch light. Priests were highly discouraged by such finery but Serilde found herself caring very little about that, tracing the swirl of metal and socketed emerald in the flame light.

She closed her eyes and held them to her chest, letting her head fall back into a plank of wood. Slowly, like settling waves after a stone thrown in water, her sullen returned to her as thoughts again drifted to Dar’nath and she worried over what had happened. Perhaps nothing she thought, perhaps the worst. She fought to keep her mind from straying to the worst scenario.

“Hey,” someone said to her low. It came from the darkened shadows beyond the reach of the torch nearby. With light so near, Serilde could scarcely see where the source had come from. And then again it called, “hey, come here.”

“Whose there?” She answered back, shielding the necklaces from sight should this stranger seek to rob her.

“Who do you think?” It called louder and Serilde breathed - Dar’nath. She hurried into the direction of his call and and bumped into him. With the weakness of the light she could hardly make out the curve of his ears and then brilliant blue gazed at her as he removed his hood.

“Where have you been?” She asked, and he shushed her, steering her further into the dark.

“Quiet,” he mumbled, his eyes flashing up briefly, “I’m leaving at at dawn.”

Serilde’s heart sank, “but why?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, gripping her arms, “Captain Ferrymay only told us we’ve been called back to Silvermoon immediately.”

Clutching the necklaces close still, she dared reach a hand and found his shoulder - he was without armor, and her hand slid pleasant over a softer cotton, perhaps even silk, than the day before, “does the King know?”

“I would suppose.”

She dropped her head, “perhaps it is the last, then.”

“Of course not,” he told her, fingers flexing. He shook her until she was forced to meet the intensity of his eyes again, “we’ll be back - I will be back next year, by fire or high water I will return.”

Serilde wished it to be true. She shifted her fingers and suddenly an idea struck her, “come down closer.”

Dar’nath hesitated, but did as he was bid. She freed one of the necklaces from her grip and felt around the bare expanse of his neck, the air between them electric as her shaking hands found the clasp of the chain and fastened it there. She traced the metal down to the pendant, letting it drop against Dar’nath - his fingers bumped hers, catching them like fireflies in his grasp as he inspected the gift, the emeralds blazing in the light of his eyes, fingers hot where they held hers.

“What is this?” He inquired softly.

“It’s... for, well. See, it matches the other. When the two pendant halves meet, they form one. It’s a symbol of friendship,” she explained weakly, presenting the second pendant and showing him how they slotted together neatly.

His fingers released hers then and took the second necklace, sweeping under the plait of her dark hair to fasten it similarly around her own neck and then lingered there, ghosting a touch up the length of her neck like a whisper, a secret only between them, as many things had always been.

“I shall cherish it always,” he whispered, his breathe falling over her very near, closer than they’d ever been. Her hand grasped his where it wandered at the fine hair at the nape of her scalp, not pulling or taking but simply touching, holding there.

“A promise that you’ll return,” Serilde affirmed instead, complying with the pressure of his fingers to angle her head up, level with his burning eyes. She found there the faint pupils within, blazing straight into her. Standing here before him, leaning in, was like being in the center of the sun.

“You know that I always keep my promises to you. Spare today. Those were beyond my control,” he huffed a laugh and let his cheek lightly press to hers. She turned into the contact gently.

“I expect you’ll make it up to me, next summer,” she breathed. Here, so close, she could find how sweetly he smelled, of what glimpses she’d taken of him before, all these few years they’d known each other. It was a luxury that Serilde thought she’d never be able to behold and savored it, leaning close to his warmth.

“There is a waterfall that I promised you,” he reminded her, and she felt him smile. He turned his head a fraction, and she felt him speak at the corner of her mouth, wildfire spreading through her blood, “and I assure you, it was quite splendid.”

“I’m certain it is,” she said, daring to turn her head a fraction with a shuddering breathe. There, the angle caught, and his bottom lip teased against hers. For a moment he paused, as though testing some unseen boundary.

“It is,” he confirmed, and breached the distance. His mouth pressed flush against hers, puffing air across her cheek as he embraced her fully, much like the day before but with heat, with a fire that had only been stoked from kindling. Serilde had never been kissed before but returned it fervently, grasping him by the shoulder and letting her hand wander up to the crest of an ear, the silk of his hair. He breathed and broke away, pressing his brow to hers.

“I had to see you before I left,” he admitted, eyes closed. Despite that, the glow persisted.

“I’ll see you again,” she breathed, “the time will pass for you like a week.”

“An eternity, more like,” he told her, and pressed in for another would-be chaste kiss.

A bell tolled in the distance from the castles keep far beyond in the howling escape of night. Dar’nath looked up and then, mournfully back to Serilde.

“I have to go,” he said, though he made no move to leave. A hand found hers where it wandered and held it tight, fingers flexing around hers and thumb lightly stroking over her knuckles.

“You know where to find me,” she said, leaning into him.

“Lighting candles at the altar, blessing good graces onto gamblers, weeping for the lost children of plague,” he listed with a smile in his voice, “I’m sure one of those will be right.”

Finally he stepped away, and the space left in his wake was cold - Serilde felt inclined to follow, breathe catching in her throat at the sudden wash of sorrow that flooded her, threatening to spill.

“Til next summer,” he said, still holding her hand firmly as he drifted away, until only the tips of their fingers connected them, “do me a favor, and dream of me in that time.”

Serilde smiled and closed her eyes. His touch faltered and left her, and the air had turned sharply cold.

With a gasp, brittle and bone deep Serilde awoke, and her eyes burned yellow as death.

——

Dar’nath waited eagerly, and then chased along the unrelenting wall of guards when he saw one particularly familiar blond head emerge from the meeting.

“Uncle!” He called, looking through the guards as he passed them.

Lor’themar looked, and grimaced. He sidestepped the procession of Court members exiting to part way for Dar’nath between the guards, allowing his nephew to walk alongside him, heedless should he fail to maintain his brisk pace.

“What happened?” He inquired sharply.

“What was expected to happen,” he replied bitterly.

Dar’nath cringed, “is it true? Was Lordaeron taken by the Scourge?”

Lor’themar released a long suffering sigh and grabbed his nephew by the arm, leading him away without an answer. Once they’d reached the secluded space of his private chambers, Lor’themar released him and walked the vacant space to his wide desk. Dar’nath followed, leaning across the pale wood with desperation, his bright blue eyes wide and wild and staring hard.

Lor’themar sat, lighting a pipe. He breathed and let the smoke sooth his nerves and the tempered annoyance that Dar’nath served him - and yet, despite their tumultuous past together, Lor’themar knew that Dar’nath could yet be trusted with important happenings, spare the small morsel of gossip on more than one occasion his nephew stupidly let spill to more than a couple less than savory Elves in Murder Row.

“It would seem the city was indeed culled,” Lor’themar confirmed smoothly, pulling another puff, “tomorrow I leave for Zul’Aman. My friend, Dar’khan, should proved us more information of the happens of Lordaeron.”

Dar’nath’s hands shook where they pressed into his desk, “did any of the Humans make it out,” he swallowed, “alive?”

Lor’themar eyed him strangely, “a small number did flee, yes. I hear they found refuge in their sister city to the south, Stormwind,” he puffed again, “worried any Human friends may be caught in the fray?”

Dar’nath recoiled, “I have found solace with the welcoming Humans,” he thought, and lied, “I worry for Lord Uther. He was a great mentor to us, I should hope he would surviv—“

“Uther is dead,” Lor’themar said evenly, “long dead before the dead took the city.”

Dar’nath’s mouth dropped a little, then snapped shut, “Light save him, then.”

“Light, yes,” Lor’themar scoffed, “I send you to learn with the Paladins, and what have you become? A nuisance to my name, a thief in my stores. You’ve shamed me more than once while you were learning from the wise Uther.”

Dar’nath flushed and found a seat - plush red velvet not far from the desk. His fingers quaked as they caught pieces of his own hair and tugged. His uncle found ways to slice through his self esteem, reliving a killing blow with each nuance as easily as any enemy felled by his bow. He could’ve easily shot Dar’nath as he did speak to him.

Lor’themar leaned back and regarded him, “prove your worth by defending the East Sanctum. Take your Holy Knights with you. Earn your worth in my eyes as your many cousins have before you, and try not to die weeping like a babe.”

Dar’nath winced as if struck, “if I am such a burden to you, then why bother?”

The supple leather of Lor’themar’s winged back chair creaked and he sat forward, leveling him with a shrewd state, “because you are my sisters brood, you foolish child, and I loved her greatly. It would dishonor me to leave you to your own devices and sour my name.”

Lor’themar reclined and puffed heavily - the great oval space was filling with the vanilla rich scent of smoke and clouded the sun wafted through the long windows, caught in the sway of long silk drapery that carried along with a gentle breeze. When Dar’nath appeared to have no contest, he continued.

“Leave now, and be ready to report to your post in the fortnight. And please - keep your puerile mouth shut of what we’ve spoken here today. The King would like panic kept at a minimum, given recent events.”

Dar’nath sprung from his seat as though thrown and strode from his uncles chamber, letting the door sway open in his wake and steadfastly ignoring the wandering stoic eyes of Capital guards that lingered upon him on his retreat. Within, a sour storm brewed as he thought of Lordaeron, wondering if it’s city had truly be reduced to nothing more then rubble - he toyed with a wild thought briefly, of leaving to hurry south to the second Human holdfast to satisfy his desire to know Serilde had made it away before the culling struck.

He paused, restless and overlooked from the terrace above down to the Court of the Sun beneath, where the bustle of movement livened the square and reached beneath the collar of his shirt, fishing out the simple necklace and admiring the strange shapes of metal and glinting emeralds. He wished to believe she was alright, closing his fingers around the pendant and drooping his head - but wishes were as foolish as he was.

——

Dar’nath had ridden to the East Sanctum before dawn had risen, clad in his uncomfortably warm armor and swaying with the steady canter of his Charger, peering up into the sky where it swirled dark and grey and angry - few times in his long, and by Elven standards rather short, life had Dar’nath seen a day in Eversong that was not sunny and clear, and perhaps the omnibus skies were telling to the threat that loomed unseen beyond the reach of their lands. The Paladins accompanying him were nothing special to speak of, wastrels and ragamuffins alike who laughed and spoke crudely most of the day - Dar’nath hadn’t even bothered with their names, considering most of them would be dead come morning. When the sun set, theirs was one of many camps lighting the singing forests with small fires, waiting in the dark along the road to Silvermoon.

He’d long resigned himself to drinking, leaning against his Charger and when he slipped now and then, armor scraping with that of the steed, it huffed and pawed the ground in its disdain. Somewhere nearing midnight, the first true sign of doom descended upon them - a soft rain of snow, followed by chattering teeth and cool winds greeted them.

“By the fucking Sunwell,” one of the Paladins hissed, using his horses blanket to shield himself from the chill and shuffling closer to the fire, “should’ve taken off when I had the chance.”

Another huddle close by the fire, “the only way to leave is the pass south, and then you’ll face the dead headlong.”

Another, from behind, female, “it doesn’t matter, Sylvanas is guarding the pass. She’s striking down deserters before they even make it that far.”

Dar’nath considers his good fortune in not deciding to abandon the cause. Dizzily he drinks, pulling free his necklace from the stifling confines of his armor and twisting the charm around his fingers despite the bone chilling cold - he’s sweating, and his fingers shake.

A particularly cold gust catches them off guard. The snow kicked up roughly with the gush and encircles them, sniffing the fires and casting them all in dark. Two of the Paladins retreated into their tents while another, the one who’d first complained, mounted his Charger and vanished into the freezing night - so much with facing the fury of Sylvanas up ahead. He finished his wine and threw the bottle, hearing it shatter against a tree underneath the gale of winds - they bit sharply at his face but he allowed it.

In the distance he could hear the shrill screams making themselves known - he grimaced and mounted his own Charger, drawing his blade.

“Come out, you cowards!” He yelled, well aware of his slur and the unease in his stomach, the wine threatening to spill forth. He choked back the sour notes and drew his Charger around the small camp, hardly seeing in the darkness swirling around them and slashed at the tents drunkenly, “get out! The dead are upon us!”

Few did, others abandoned him as well - the fray was building and Dar’nath turned his steed to face a meager force of the Undead charging them, easily stroking them down with swift blows. This was not the full force of the dead army, he concluded when two more sprung up and charged for them - this was meant them to keep awake and exhaust them. Weaken them come morning, keep them on edge. A psychological game played against them - the Paladins who remained joined him, and together they fought as the skies lightened come morning, hours later.

The gales hasn’t weakened then, and the cold chewed at their armor until it creaked and near rusted under the melting snow and drained the strength from them. Though now as light flooded Eversong - aided by flickering torches relit and quickly extinguished to help guide them, he could see the path they tore leading up to Silvermoon, scores of charging Undead leaving a wake of death and decay in their paths, straining the soil black and killing the grass in their wakes.

Dar’nath sorely missed the wine mid-morning, when it seemed the Undead had relented. His golden armor was splattered with black sticky blood that smells awful and splashes of green that clung to his hair - a lingering green remained where the Undead has blighted then further south, the cloud rising into the trees in a diseased fog. Most of his Paladin forces remained alive - surprising, since Dar’nath hadn’t expected them to last long into the morning and allowed himself a reprieve near the Sanctum, dismounting and letting himself sit against an outcropping of stone, shoving back his hair with little care how it tangled in his gauntlets, ripping free what stuck in the links of his metal clad fingers.

“Have we won?” A Paladin swept by him, his Charger snorting, sweat heavy on its nose.

Dar’nath breathed heavily, looking out where the other forces seemed equally relieved, “I don’t know.”

“They’ve stopped,” another rode by, looking wild, “why have they stopped?”

Dar’nath groaned tiredly, “I don’t know.”

“We should send a missive to Silvermoon and alert the King,” the first told him.

“And who might carry the missive?” He spied then with one eye, exhaustion catching up with him - he felt heavy and leaded, firmly rooted to the spot, “I’m certain the King might already know.”

But he wasn’t certain - it sounded good to say, even as the Paladin snarled at him and rode away, kicking up the patches of snow that still clung to the ground - it had stopped snowing and the cold retreated allowing for the typical summer air to gently roll through, but Dar’nath found it to be too hot - he ripped off his cloak with a sigh and thought half-heartedly to abandon the rest of his armor with it.

“They’re back!” The Paladin rode by, gazing past the Sanctum and over Dar’nath’s head - he turned to look, and this time an entire swarm of Undead flooded toward them, cutting their way down the darkened path they’d built heading toward Silvermoon- but this time it was no distraction to weakened them - this was the killing blow meant to end them. Dar’nath felt for the first time a creeping dread work its way up to his nape where the hairs stood on end and stood with great effort, taking his shield from his Charger and securing it.

“Hold steady and push them back!” He commanded, stepping down the jagged ground toward where the Undead came for them. He struck one solid with his shield and another met his blade, and he focused on that task - if he looked, he could see where the other forces of High Elves met their end, and Dar’nath wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted by fear.

The Paladins around him took his lead and followed, healing and striking alongside him, and Dar’nath let his eyes foolishly linger up to see how far reaching the army was before them, and a strangeness flooded him. He caught sight of something wholly familiar in the seeming unending tangle of clawing dead limbs and snapping jaws, something that caused his shield to reflexively lower in wonder.

One of the Undead was a Priest, if he’d guessed, judging from the blood-soak and torn once-white robes it wore, a hood covering its face, equally tainted, but the shape of it was... Dar’nath dropped his sword as a terrible dread stopped his heart and he strode forward, unarmed.

“What’re you doing?!” One of the Paladins shouted, over the clang of metal.

“Stop him!” Another screamed.

But Dar’nath was not stopped. He watched as the Undead turned briefly, catching the shape of its profile and the jagged hanging jaw that dropped black blood steadily onto its chest, filth that spread down to the robes and clung at its feet, causing it to stumble. He knew it was Serilde then, or had been - and a horrible cry wrenched itself free from his throat.

So distracted as he was that he didn’t notice the abomination that charged him, shaking the ground with its terrible steps and struck him so hard and fast that Dar’nath was sent reeling back, acutely aware of the sting that sluiced down his face to abdomen. What seemed like seconds later he was being hauled back, looking up pleadingly at the upturned faces of Paladins dragging him away, and sudden he started to thrash.

“Let me die!” He screamed, clawing the ground to stop them.

“Don’t!” One of the Paladins screamed, heedless of his struggles at the other Paladin dragging him, “if he dies, Lor’themar will kill us all!”

When he finally succumbed to the pain, it was while he wept - sobbing as Lor’themar distinctly instructed him not too.

——

Waking was a slow affair.

Dar’nath drifted between full wakefulness and blackness, opening and closing his mouth several times - he was parched, throat clicking with each swallow, and turned - he was in his chambers, blearily looking around, wondering if it had all been a terrible nightmare. Though reality made itself pointedly present as he sat up, immediately wheezing as a fresh hot wave of pain burned through him.

He was bandaged and poorly healed. He breathed fast as he touched the edges of bandages covering his chest, another at his face, rough at the edges were he supposed blood had seeped through. Cold and shivering Dar’nath stood and immediately stumbled back into a chair he’d kept near his bed, at a desk, and used the leverage to fight and stay upright. The sound alerted guards on the outside who opened his door and flooded the room with brilliant golden light from the terraces outside, stepping inside - their armor was scratched and broken, and one limped heavily.

“Your uncle has instructed you brought to him when you awaken,” they told him coolly.

“Then tell him I don’t want too,” he argued weakly, voice scratchy. How long had he slept?

They stood still, unrelenting, “it has been commanded,” they said, “by the Reagent Lord of Silvermoon. You are in no position to deny him. Make yourself presentable.”

Reagent Lord? Dar’nath’s stomach dropped - what happened to the King? The Prince..? How many days, weeks had passed? Shaking, Dar’nath threw on the nearest robe he had and tied it loosely at the waist, gathering his hair - now retched with filth and smelling, into a tie to keep it free from his face. Once he was able, he followed the guards from his quarters and bypassed what had once been the halls of his uncle within the keep, gazing over the ledge of the terrace as they walked - many parts of the city from this vantage appeared sacked and laid in ruin, but was largely whole - most notably was the lacking of Elves around, perhaps only a handful passing him quietly as he walked, heads down and eyes averted.

Dar’nath was near stumbling as he entered the royal chambers, blissfully untouched by the Scourge, and more guards allowed him into the Kings private quarters - golden trees sang at the patio, the leaves dropping like gilded rainfall over the clean white stone, draperies wafting in the breeze that rolled in from the ocean - he’d never been here before and looked around, startling when the chamber doors slammed shut as the guards exited, and he was alone.

Or so he thought.

Standing facing the ocean waters was Lor’themar, cutting a lean shape as he stood still as the statues gracing the while berth of the halls, the only movement of him being the sway of his similarly pale blond hair catching in the breezes. Dar’nath, briefly stricken and unsure what to do, slowly hobbled near the Kings wise and ornate desk and seated himself at the luxurious cushioned chairs nearby, holding where the ties of his robe rubbed into his wounds sorely.

“You’ve dishonored me,” Lor’themar drawled - his hands were clenched behind his back tightly, Dar’nath could see his knuckles white.

Dar’nath swallowed, rubbing his throat, fingers catching his chain - he tucked it down, hissing in the robe, “we were ambushed.”

“You,” Lor’themar breathed, practically vibrating, “have dishonored me.”

Dar’nath flinched, “we were not prepa—“

“You! You, foolish, stupid child!” Lor’themar turned and charged for him, letting the desk act as a barrier between them - one blazing eye peered shrewdly at him, while the other... a white, dead thing, locked in a molted twist of freshly healing scars, seethed at him. He spat, “they should have let you die.”

Dar’nath forced his eyes away, “I hadn’t expected to live.”

“And yet, here you are,” Lor’themar flourished a hand, “here, to stand as a tribute of failure. Those I’d commanded to follow you have all died, did you know that?”

He hadn’t, he’d only just woken - though that seemed a folly, something his uncle wouldn’t accept - even the echo of those words spoken in his mind themselves seemed childish and punitive. Instead, he opted for silence.

Lor’themar rounded the desk and Dar’nath tensed, “the King, dead. Most of our people, dead. The Sunwell, dead. And yet fate spared you to torment me.”

Dar’nath shook on the spot, “we were ambushed,” he breathed, eyes skittering between Lor’themar and the floor, “we didn’t know what to do.”

Lor’themar let out a noise of frustration, “you. You were meant to fight. Die honorably. Did you know that those who brought you back here laughed as they told me about how you wept, crying the whole while, screaming?”

He hadn’t. How could he? Dar’nath shook his head, “it’s... I hadn’t expected it to be, like that. The.. the Undead. They were relentless.”

Lor’themar breathed sharply - Dar’nath steadied his gaze and looked up, noting the strange green glow that had overtaken the normally vibrant blue in his uncles one remaining eye. He thought it strange, but thought better of asking about it. Instead he shrunk back into the seat miserably.

“I meant to call you here to have you dismissed from my courts,” Lor’themar explained, pacing away from him - the plumes of anger roiled off him like sea foam but Dar’nath eased now that the rage was much further away from him, “but now that you’re here, I’ve decided I cannot trust you on your own outside this keep.”

Dar’nath swallows again, feeling it sticky, “will you have me executed then?”

Lor’themar whirled and sneered at him, “don’t be foolish. We’ve already lost enough Elves, let alone to kill those who remain. Consider yourself fortunate for that cause.”

Desperate to change the subject, however grim, Dar’nath tried, “what happened to the Prince, if you’re Reagent Lord now?”

Lor’themar sighed, “taken to the Outlands with a large quarter of our forces,” he explained, and the edge seemed to briefly subside from his voice, “he has charged me in his stead while he seeks to restore the Sunwell.”

Dar’nath nodded, and silence fell over them.

Finally, Lor’themar spoke again, “leave now, before I change my mind about your inclination toward being executed. Do not leave this keep until I figure out what to do with you.”

Dar’nath needn’t be told twice - he hurried away, as fast as his wounds might let him, back to the sanctuary of his quarters without sparing a glance at any Elf along the way - he wondered if they’d all been lashed at by Lor’themar, but reasoned perhaps not - his uncle was just and a fit ruler for certain, largely sparing his disdain for him alone. A respite perhaps from his generally cool and level head, a bag of which to beat whenever the desire came over him, though Dar’nath had more often than not deserved it.

He shut the door and latched it, returning to his bed. He kept the robe on to shield him from his shivering cold and blew away a stray strand of hair clinging to his face, staring at the wall grimly. Like frothing milk, emotion welled within him and in his blessed private, Dar’nath allowed himself to weep.

——

Summer always lived in the lands of Quel’Thalas, even as winter blew the kingdoms of the South, and before long spring had come and left for the early summee, when Paladins from the sparkling kingdom of Silvermoon would trek South to their friends of Lordaeron, to learn the ways of the Light and teach Humans the forbidden arts of Arcane magic. Only this time, there was no party banding together to leave - no Lordaeron to trek too, no summer filled with stowing Serilde away in secret and lying to his uncle, of long filled days exploring and laughing and perhaps, even taking her to the small pond he knew well, that he had known, and Serilde had been right - they’d been there before and yet his opportunity to tell her this had been dashed, like spilt grain.

He had learned in that time that the Prince Kael’thas had renamed them Blood Elves - in tribute to their fallen brothren - and that they were forced to turn to their own Arcane magic to sustain them in lieu of the Sunwell. Dar’nath had watched his eyes turn from blue to burning green and wondered if Serilde might’ve noticed as he cantered down through Tirisfal, wavering on his Charger as he did, watching the sickly orange sky turn green.

He’d made a promise, even if Serilde wouldn’t be there. It was the spirit of it he surmised as he lead his steed South again, pulling steadily from his wine at his saddlebags. With the new mana addiction came a renewed desire to drink, almost as powerful as the desire for mana itself and he found himself more often than not relying on it to carry him through one dismal day to the next.

Lor’themar hadn’t spoken with him since, to drawn up in his own business to worry himself with that Dar’nath did. He found escaping Quel’Thalas much easier than he’d thought and spent the last two days sleeping in his saddle, only waking when the distant groan of lingering Undead made themselves known somewhere far off where he couldn’t see. He’d decided to leave his armor behind but only had the wherewithal to bring his sword and shield with, a heavy weight on his back, disdainfully longing for that pressure to be Serilde instead, as she’d rocked into him upon their return to Lordaeron, dozing in the late Summer day of times past.

He spent this time wondering. It was often a rumor that Elves bore little love for anything in their lives, too fine and refined to spoil themselves and spare notions for acts of love. He’d heard a rumor once, that his kind only found it within themselves to love once and wondered if it were true - on the second day when he’d broken into Tirisfal he’d supposed that was correct, by the terrible ache that tore through him so keenly he thought he might bleed over all of Azeroth. He had loved once, and now it was spoiled and gone and left behind, stagnant in its wake, left to suffer.

He thought he might die down here. As he watched the ruins of Lordaeron stagger into the distance, he decided if it were to happen, then it shall. His truest regret was that he wasn’t taken during the War and raised to join the ranks of the Fallen Prince - perhaps then the afterlife would’ve spared him one favor and he might’ve trudged eternity alongside whatever remained of Serilde. Instead, life decided him unfit of such an honor, so much so he taken that decision into his own hands instead.

Dar’nath dismounted when he arrived at the broken gates of the city ruins, a hollowing sort of silence greeting him instead of the bustle of this once lively city. He’d called in ugly and horrible before, but that was nothing compared to the arid bones and destruction laid bare before him. He slowly drew his sword and pressed forward, abandoning his Charger and hoping it may find refuge somewhere far from here, to gnaw at fresh grass and roam free. On second thought he turned for it, unlatching it’s saddle and tearing away the blanket, pulling free the bit and bridle from its white face while dark eyes regarded him quietly.

“Go now,” he whispered, brushing its mane, “find somewhere peaceful away from here. I’ll be alright.”

The horse kicked and whipped its tail, unwilling to leave. Dar’nath stepped away and squared his shoulders, watching the horse until it finally started to roam, snuffling around the ground for grass - everything here was spoiled and rotten - it would certainly leave to find greener pastures elsewhere. He knelt for his saddle bags and kicked them away after he retrieved his last bottle of wine, pulling out the cork with his teeth and spitting it away, drinking greedily. He could feel the ebbing gnaw of his mana addiction beginning to slowly claw at him and he chased it away with the alcohol.

He ventured then into Lordaeron, sniffing as he did, unlatching his shield and letting it clatter away so he could drink freely with one hand and hold his sword moderately steady with the other. The air itself was stagnant and still and for the moment, it seemed nothing here remained.

Slowly from around a corner, one of the Undead groaned at him. It shuffled forward, slowly raising its arms to reach for him as it approached - Dar’nath sneered at it, drinking again and lifting his sword halfhearted and wavering.

“Come on you bastard,” he swung, missing. He cursed, slurred Thalassian, and swung again, “don’t you have any friends nearby?”

It seemed it didn’t. It lumbered toward him and Dar’nath stepped back, dodging its grappling hands.

“Work for it, you shambling mess,” he spat, and swung - his sword keened in the air and struck its target, slicing away an arm. The Undead seemed unfettered and groaned loudly.

“You stupid shit,” he ground out, and sliced again. He struck, and kept going, sloshing wine over his hand while his arm begun to ache with the force of the sword breaking brittle bones and then, striking stone as the Undead collapsed onto the ground, sloppily dismantled.

A low wheeze came from its broken lungs as it finally stopped moving. Dar’nath slipped to his knees beside it and struck it again, weakly now, letting his sword sink and saw into its broken head. The bottle somewhere fell beside him and he let it slip free from his grip, using that hand to cover his face, splayed fingers over the ragged scar that begun near his temple and cut through his face, down to near his waist. He clawed his hand there and felt his nails breach the tender skin of his cheek, letting out a low cry. His shoulders quaked and he stayed there for a long time, alone in ruins.

——

Finally it would seem the Blood Elves had joined the Horde. It was inevitable, truly. Dar’nath long heard whispers of it before the treaty had been struck with his uncle and a long procession of filthy lumbering orcs and their gruff Warchief. And now they were invited to endeavor the splendors of Oggrimar - and Dar’nath decided lowly that Lordaeron was, or had been in fact quite beautiful compared to the filthy rabble he now had to supreme disgust to behold in person.

He had spent the better part of an hour watching the happenings between a Troll and Tauren argue over the price of stupid flowers and herbs that eventually erupted into a full-blown duel to the death and wondered how long it was appropriate to remain here before he’d be allowed to return to Quel’Thalas. The only saving grace this stinking city had was strong Orcish spirits, a sort of bitter ale with twigs and leaves swirling within the dark contents, but Dar’nath felt it was more than sufficient at numbing his senses. 

He hated it here. In the years since the Third War Dar’nath had found it quite easy to wallow in hate and spite and every other emotion that followed it it’s wake - it was better, easier than allowing anguish to control him, to lay and wait and die suffering, holding onto the broken tattered remains of his broken heart and hope that death would bear down upon him swiftly. He’d learned something futile of honor then, and decided that soldiering on was a better way of life than drowning in self pity.

But he lets his mind wander. Seeing the Horde - most notably, the Forsaken, had stirred strange feelings within Dar’nath that he wished to quell. He remembered how they’d clawed at him during the war, how he’d struck down each one he’d found roaming Lordaeron until his mana addiction howled far too greatly at him and he was forced to return to Quel’Thalas in agony. Yet now they strolled around easily, comfortably conversing with them - one even tried to sell him a flower for an obscenely price and he’d dismissed them all. He heard furthermore talk of Lady Sylvanas having survived the ordeal with the Prince, in one way or another, and wondered whoever else might’ve made it out from under the thumb of the Lich King’s control.

Thinking too much was bound to cause Dar’nath to embarrass himself in this foreign city, finding some dark corner to weep his sorrows into, so he put a stop to it. He drank more of the strong ale and hoped to drown the thoughts and as though summoned by his own mind, two Tauren begun to dance together. He heard others laugh around him - he wished he could, but found it escaped him. He found little entertaining much anymore, though two anthropomorphic cows waving their two-fingers hands in the air nearly undid him. Nearly.

He snorted and drew up a knee comfortably instead.

His attention turned to the other Blood Elves milling around the Valley of Honor and watched for the queue of their leave, hoping it would come soon, and slumped back under the shade of some filthy mud hut with a leather thatched roof that did little to shield him from the sun - oppressive and hot and dry. It fueled his thirst so he drank again, letting his head fall back and eyes close, long ears twisting to listen to the gruff sounds erupting around him.

“I’ve come for aid,” came a voice quiet from his left.

“I haven’t got any,” he sniped back coldly.

He’d thought whoever had spoken to him might’ve left, and then, “I need assistance deciphering a tome or two.”

The voice was familiar but it carried with it a steel on stone undertone that made him shiver. He turned his head at the chin to dismiss whoever was bothering him, cracking open a green eye to look, and the thin form of a Forsaken stood five paces away, yellow eyes watching him, half its face covered from the nose down. Bone protruded from the elbows and it’s spidery fingers grappled at the front of its muted silvery robes, hanging desperately from its lanky form.

Dar’nath breathed in and regarded this creature fully, the beer forgotten, “do I know you?”

It took a step toward him, raising one of its bone hands around the unseen neck and pulled forward a chain, and Dar’nath immediately recognized the charm that dangled between the bones. Dar’nath fought to recoil, “it seems you’ve finally fulfilled your promise to return.”

Sudden recognition struck Dar’nath as sure as a blow to the head. He stood, sabatons catching his cloak and stumbled but his attention was so drawn to the Forsaken that he let it tear as he approached, “is...” he begun, and swallowed densely, “is it truly?”

The Forsaken smiled - or seemed to have, and Dar’nath rushed forward to sweep it up in a tight hug - he felt the bones, every single one, and lessened his grip in fear of crushing it. His mind fogged and for a moment, he thought he might faint until it returned his embrace lightly. His shoulder begun quivering against his will, and it was as though after a long storm, the sun was finally beginning to peer between the clouds. The center of the sun.

“I believe you promised me a waterfall,” she said, very near, “but I’ve got some better ones to show you here.”


End file.
